Shadows in Paradise

by Erich Maria Remarque

  Lowy Senior gulped. "Okay. Voisin it is." And, turning to me, "Come along, Mr. Ross, seeing you're all dressed up. What have you got in the package?"

  "My old suit."

  "Leave it here. You can pick it up after dinner."

  I was full of admiration for Lowy Senior. Julius bad dealt him quite a blow in insisting on Voisin. Voisin was very expensive, and the poetic brother, far from contenting himself with chopped chicken liver, would order the finest pâté de foie gras. But the elder twin didn't bat an eyelash. He had agreed without hesitation and invited me to boot. All the same, I decided to order pâté de foie gras. In some remote way I felt I owed it to Julius and the racial problem.

  It was about ten when I got back to the hotel. "There's a package for you," said Melikov. "It seems to be a bottle."

  I removed the wrapping. "Good God!" cried Melikov. "Real Russian vodka!"

  I rummaged through the wrapping paper. There was no message. "I wish to point out," Melikov said, "that the bottle is not quite full. It wasn't me. It came that way."

  "I know," I said. "There are two glassfuls missing. Be my guest What a day!"

  X

  I called for Kahn, who was taking me to a party at the Vriesländers'. "A kind of bar mitzvah," he explained. "They've just become American citizens."

  "So quickly? Doesn't it take five years?"

  "The Vriesländers took out their first papers five years ago. They came over with the 'smart wave* before the war started."

  "They were smart, all right," I said. "Why didn't we think of it?"

  Vriesländer had been lucky. Long before the Nazis came to power he had invested heavily in American securities, mostly AT&T, which had almost doubled in value over the years. Even so, he had made a big mistake. The greater part of his capital had been tied up in his business—silks and furs. He had thought there would be plenty of time to liquidate if the situation became critical. But trouble came from an unexpected quarter two years before the Nazis seized power. It suddenly became known that one of the leading German banks was threatened with bankruptcy. For fear of a general panic—the Germans had not forgotten the terrible inflation of ten years before, when the mark had dropped to one-billionth of its normal value—the democratic government had imposed currency control and blocked all foreign transfers, thereby unwittingly signing the death sentence of innumerable Jews and anti-Nazis. This measure was never rescinded, and consequently, when the Nazis became a real threat, hardly anyone was able to take his money out of the country. The National Socialists thought it was the world's best joke.

  At that point Vriesländer had hesitated. He had no desire to leave everything behind, and like many Jews of his class he thought the storm would pass over, that once the Nazis were in power they would put down the hotheads in their ranks and a respectable, law-abiding government would emerge. Vriesländer was an ardent patriot. He didn't trust the Nazis, but he revered the aged President, Field Marshal von Hindenburg, who, to his mind, symbolized all the old Prussian virtues. It was Hindenburg who had appointed Hitler to the chancellorship, so everything must be all right.

  Vriesländer didn't wake from his dream until he found himself threatened with prosecution by the Nazi authorities for a long list of offenses ranging from fraudulent business dealings to the rape of an underage female apprentice whom he had never even seen. Confident in the proverbial integrity of the German courts, Vriesländer had sent the girl's mother packing when she tried to blackmail him for fifty thousand marks, whereupon both the girl and her mother had sworn out a complaint. Then a police official, accompanied by a high party leader, had come to him with a new blackmailing proposition, and he knew he had no choice but to accept. They demanded no less than the whole of his capital in return for an opportunity to leave the country with his wife and daughter. The commanding officer of one of the crossing points on the Dutch border was to be given secret instructions. Vriesländer didn't believe a word of it, but signed on the dotted line. Wonder of wonders, the Nazis carried out their part of the agreement. Vriesländer's wife and daughter went first; when he received a post-card from Utrecht, he handed over the deed to his house and his remaining stocks. Three days later, he, too, was in Holland.

  Then began the second act of the tragicomedy. His passport expired before he could apply for an American visa. He tried unsuccessfully to get other papers. A small sum of money was sent to him from America, but the bank Would send no more because he himself had stipulated the funds were to be delivered only to him in person. He was a destitute millionaire without a passport. He managed to cross over into France. By that, time the French authorities were suspicious of everybody and treated him like one of the many less fortunate refugees who told the most fanciful stories for fear of being sent back to Germany. In the end some relatives in America sent affidavits, and he was given a visa on his expired passport. When his pile of securities was handed to him, he kissed the topmost certificate and decided to change his name.

  This was the last day of Vriesländer and the first day of Daniel Warwick—though his refugee friends continued to call him Vriesländer. He had availed himself of the right to change his name on acquiring citizenship.

  We stepped into a large, brightly lighted drawing room. One could see at a glance that Vriesländer had made good use of his time in America. The whole place reeked of money. An enormous buffet had been set up in the dining room. On a separate table there were two immense layer cakes, one with "Vriesländer," the other with "Warwick" inscribed in icing. The Vriesländer cake was edged with black chocolate in guise of mourning, the other with a pink floral design. "My cook's idea," said Vriesländer proudly. "What do you think of it?"

  His broad florid face glowed with pleasure. "The Vriesländer cake will be cut and eaten tonight," he explained. "The other will be preserved intact It's symbolic."

  "What gave you the idea Of Warwick?" Kahn asked. "Isn't that an illustrious English family?"

  Vriesländer nodded. "Exactly. When I get a chance to pick my name, I'm going to pick something good. Did you expect me to call myself Levi or Conn?"

  Kahn gave him a dirty look, and Vriesländer was Sustered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kahn," he stammered. "It had nothing to do with you. It just slipped out of me. Just a manner of speaking. You know how it is. . . ."

  "Yes," said Kahn. "I know how it is, Mr. Warwick."

  "Tomorrow," said Vriesländer. "Not until tomorrow. To tell you the truth, I did it for my wife. like this whole layout She deserves it after all she's been through." He looked anxiously at Kahn, still afraid of having offended him. "Let's have a drink, Mr. Kahn. What will it be?"

  "Champagne," said Kahn without hesitation. "Dom Péri-gnon! You owe it to your name."

  "I'm sorry," said Vriesländer, "there isn't any." For a moment he was visibly embarrassed, but then he brightened. "I can offer you a good American champagne though."

  "American champagne? In that case, give me a glass of Bordeaux."

  "That's the ticket. We have an excellent American Bordeaux!"

  "Mr. Vriesländer," said Kahn patiently, aren't you carrying your new patriotism a little too far?"

  "It's not that," said Vriesländer, "but you see, this is a very special day." His shirt front seemed to swell with pride. "On a day like this we can't have anything that reminds us of the past. We could have had Holland gin, and even Rhine wine is still to be had for a price. We decided against it. We suffered too much in those countries. And in France, too. That's why we didn't order any French wine. And between you and me, they're not so much better. It's all in the advertising."

  Kahn and I repaired to the buffet I helped myself to a piece of chicken in jellied port wine sauce. "The food here is all right" I said. "Is it all from their own kitchen?"

  "Every bit of it Vriesländer has had this Hungarian cook for years. A few months after he left Germany, she managed to join him in France, via Switzerland. She even brought Mrs. Vriesländer's jewels out with her. Before crossing the border she wrapp
ed them in cake dough and swallowed them."

  I looked around. The crowd was two or three deep around the buffet.

  "All refugees?" I asked.

  "No, not all. Mrs. Vriesländer cultivates American connections. As you've heard, they speak nothing but English now in the family. With a German accent, but English."

  "Very sensible. How else would they learn?"

  Kahn laughed. "Whenever I hear such English, it makes me think of an old lady I know, another refugee. After she had been here a few months, she fell sick. She had no money, and there was no one to help her. She decided to kill herself. But just as she was going into the kitchen to turn on the gas, she thought of how hard she had been working on her English, and it occurred to her that in the last few weeks she had begun to understand what people were saying. Wouldn't it be a shame, she thought, to give up now? That did it. She went back to bed and decided to get well. I always think of her when I hear these people struggling with their new language. There's something touching about them—even the Vriesländers."

  My eyes lit on Kàhn's enormous portion of roast pork and red cabbage. "I'm a freethinker," he said when he sensed the direction of my thoughts. "And red cabbage is one of my . . ."

  "I know," I interrupted him. "One of your innumerable weaknesses."

  "A man can't have too many," he said. "Especially if he lives dangerously. You'll never commit suicide if you have plenty of weaknesses."

  "Have you ever had such ideas?"

  "Yes. Once. Everything was going wrong and I was desperate. You know what saved me? The smell of liver and onions coming out of a restaurant. I decided to have some before committing suicide. I went in and drank beer while I was waiting for my liver and onions. Somebody involved me in a conversation, one thing led to another, and here I am. You think I made it up, but it's true."

  "I believe you," I said, helping myself to some liver and mushrooms. "I'm taking my precautions," I explained.

  "Another of my weaknesses," Kahn said, "is beautiful women. What do you think of that girl over there, eating Strudel and whipped cream? Isn't she beautiful?"

  "More than beautiful," I said. "She's tragically beautiful." And I took another look. "If she weren't eating that Strudel with such dedication, I'd feel like getting down on my knees to her. But what's wrong with her? Has she a hump? Or piano legs? Something must be wrong with her. Why should a goddess be wasting her time at the Vriesländers'?"

  "Wait till she stands up," said Kahn with enthusiasm. "She's perfect. Legs like a gazelle. A figure like Diana. Not too thin. Flawless skin. Full, firm breasts."

  I gave him a suspicious look.

  "You don't believe me?" he said. "I know all about her. And to crown her perfections, her name is Carmen. Unfortunately . . ."

  "Aha! So there is something wrong with her."

  Kahn sighed. "She's dumb. Not middling average dumb but spectacularly dumb. Cutting that Strudel and getting the pieces into her mouth will exhaust her mental powers. She'll be very tired when she's through. She'd take a nap if she could."

  "Too bad," I said. I didn't believe him.

  "Not at all. It's fascinating."

  "How can such stupidity be fascinating?"

  "Because it's so unexpected."

  "A statue is even dumber."

  "A statue doesn't talk. She talks."

  "What does she say?"

  "The most incredible idiocies. I knew her in France. Her stupidity was legendary; it protected her like a magic cloak. In the end I found out the Gestapo were after her and I took her away with me. When I came to get her, she insisted on taking a bath. Then she had to pack; she refused to leave without her clothes. It wouldn't have surprised me if she'd wanted a permanent; luckily, it was too early in the morning. Of course she wouldn't leave without breakfast. I was expecting the Gestapo any minute, but she just sat there eating bread and jam. There were some rolls left, and she wanted to take them with her. She was still looking for paper to wrap them in when we heard the tramp of boots. Then finally, but still without haste, she got into my car. That morning I fell in love with her."

  "On the spot?"

  "As soon as we were safe. She never noticed it. Tm afraid she's even too stupid for love."

  "That's saying a lot," I said.

  "I heard from her off and on. She was in incredible situations. Nothing ever happened to her. Murderers were disarmed by her guilelessness. I don't think she was ever even raped. And then she turned up here on one of the last ships."

  "What's she doing now?"

  "Still the same fool's luck. She was hardly off the boat when Vriesländer took her on as a receptionist. She didn't even look for the job. That would have been too much of a strain. It fell into her lap."

  "Why isn't she in the movies?"

  "Even for that she's too stupid."

  "Is that possible?"

  "It's not just her stupidity. She's lazy. No ambition. No energy. No complexes. A wonderful woman."

  Our plates were empty. We strolled over to the Vriesländer cake. Half of it was gone, but one could still read the letters VRIES. "Couldn't he have just called himself Lander?" Kahn remarked.

  "He wanted something brand new," I said. "How could he start a new life with the rear end of his old name?"

  "What will you call yourself when you get your citizenship?"

  "That's easy. I'll just take my old name, my real one. What could be newer than that?"

  "I knew a dentist in France. They'd let him out of Germany. The day before he was to leave, he was told to report to the Gestapo. He said good-by to everybody he knew; they all thought he was done for. But it was only a formality: his name. How could they let a Jew leave the country with such a name? Guess what it was. Adolf Deutschland. He changed it to Land, and they let him go."

  "There is dancing in the next room," Mrs. Vriesländer announced. "I know we shouldn't because of the war, but a day like this only comes once. A nice little dance can't do any harm. And our soldiers here are looking forward to it."

  Sure enough, she had rounded up some American soldiers. The living-room carpet was rolled back, and Miss Vriesländer, in a flaming-red dress, pounced on a young lieutenant who was eating ice cream with two fellow officers. A moment later they in turn were snapped up by two pretty girls who looked startlingly alike.

  "Those are the Koller twins," Kahn informed me. "Hungarians. One of them arrived in New York two years ago. She took a cab straight from the ship to a private hospital run by a well-known plastic surgeon. When she emerged six weeks later, her nose was twice as small and her bosom twice as big. Someone on shipboard had given her the address. When her sister arrived, she met her on the dock, threw a veil over her face, and hurried her to the same surgeon. Anyway, two months later, she. turned up with the same improvements. Now they say a third sister has arrived but refuses to be operated on. The rumor is that the twins have sequestered her somewhere and are putting pressure on her."

  "Did they have their names remodeled, too?" I asked.

  "No. They claim to have been film stars in Budapest. And they've already made a start in the movies here. With all the improvements, they've still got the old paprika in their blood."

  "I think it's marvelous," I said. "Anything you don't like about yourself, when you get to America you can change it: face, bosom, name, anything. I'm all for it. Long' live the Kollers and the Warwicks."

  Vriesländer came in to announce that there would be goulash later on. "Rosy's getting it ready now. About eleven."

  Then he spied Kahn and joined us. "I try to be cheerful." he said. "But it's not easy."

  "I wouldn't expect to hear that from you, Mr. Vriesländer."

  "It's true. It's kind of a sinking feeling. I just can't get rid of it, Just between you and me, Mr. Kahn, do you think I did right, changing my name?, Sometimes that gives me a sinking feeling, too."

  "Why not, if it gives you pleasure," said Kahn. His tone was one of sincere warmth. "You're not harming anyone. And late
r on, if you find it doesn't suit you, you can change it again."

  "Really?"

  "It's very simple in this blessed land. It's almost like Java. When a Javanese is bored with his personality, he just takes another name. Some people do it half a dozen times. Why drag the old Adam around with you if you're sick of him?"

  Vriesländer smiled. "You're very kind, Mr. Kahn. You've really cheered me up." And he waddled away.

  "There's Carmen dancing," said Kahn.

  She hardly moved. Quite oblivious to her partner, she seemed to be dreaming of faraway worlds beyond the stars. While all eyes fastened on her, she, if Kahn was to be believed, was inwardly feasting on Strudel and whipped cream.

  "The cow!" breathed Kahn in a voice husky with emotion. "I adore her."